Not the American Band-Aid

I had fixed my hair and put on my skirt. First day of Ashiwa.

I slid on my black, baby-doll shoes and slipped on my black and white beaded bracelet I got in America. I left for school with a banana in hand and a stomach full of egg-over-rice. I was ready.

Or so I thought.

Holly and I met up at her house and boarded the bus to go to school. No big deal. I gave my 7 Baht to the money-collector person and stood there [the bus was full]. No worries, I can stand.

The bus arrived at our stop, and Holly told me when. We jumped off the bus and started walking along the concrete sidewalk to our school. I started walking into the entrance of where I thought was Ashiwa, only to get my shirt collar pulled backwards by Holly to turn me around straight back on the sidewalk. "Unless you attend grade school, keep walking." She said.

That was only the beginning.

We had walked over the road to the school where people were gathered in front for announcements. We stepped in line with the rest of the people [whom were now staring at the new 'farang' (me; it means foreigner)], only to get myself dragged up in front of the entire group to the side of the flagpole stand/stage thingie. First day. "The word 'majak' means 'from.'" Mr. Warawit, my Kanchanaphisek director, just told me.

"Oh, Sahwatdee-kha, Kun-Pah!" I wai'd to my host dad. Wait, what?!

"Ready?" He asked me.

"What? For what?" I'm confused.

"Speech." He replied, then looked back at the person speaking to the 3,000-person student body.

One thing you should know about me: I don't do well with speeches, and I've never given one to such a large group of people before.

Holly had been shown the way up to the stage as well, for she just walked on top as the speaker ended her speech and motioned me forward up the concrete stairs. I climbed them hesitantly thinking over what to say in my mind. It was blank.

Nonetheless, my feet had found the spot at the podium rather well.

It went alright, but I didn't say a whole lot. I didn't know what to say, you know? I simply said in Thai, "Hello. My name is Monica in America. Here it is Monthida, or nickname Thida. I'm from America." That's all I said. I had no idea what else to say! I guess that speech was rather lame, especially because I could speak longer in Thai, but didn't. Oh well.

I was shown around campus by Holly, then we went to class. My heels hurt. There was no teacher, so we then proceeded to go to 7-11 to eat, where I also bought heel pads for my feet. We then went back home on the yellow bus.

When we arrived home, I noticed my shoes had worn into my feet. I now had slight cuts where my shoes have rubbed against the sides of my feet and heel, and it stung.

I went to Holly's the next day, and realized I had left my flip flops there. I think I'll be using those today. My shoes still hurt against my feet, so I think I should let them heal over.

Holly's aunt thought otherwise, and gave me two band aids. I gratefully put them on over where it hurt most, and left my flip flops at Holly's thinking I'd be alright.

I came home. My band-aids sort of rolled up on themselves (you know how annoying that is) and were sticking to my shoes, so I decided to take them off.

I grabbed the falling-off edge and starting pulling slowly, only to notice my skin was going with it. I stared at my foot. How could this happen to me? I whined. Holly laughed. I tried again, this time pulling the other one off. Instead, "OW! My skin!" I started freaking out a little, then devised the childhood plan. One rapid rip. I gripped the edge roughly, ready to kill. I tore it off my already sore foot and let out a small squeal-shriek that only people next to me would be able to hear. I looked at the "healing", torturous, medicated device. Little blood, no medication left, some skin. WHAT?! I looked at my foot. The protector has stolen my skin! THIEF! "OW!" I cradled my sore foot, preparing to detach the other leech. My fingers once again clenched to the sides, and tore. Another scream-like squeal emitted from my agape mouth as my skin once again surrendered to the zombie band-aid that eats flesh like a Thanksgiving Turkey Dinner.

Atleast they were now gone, however. Apparently I won't be using those things again, unless it's a more serious wound [which I should go to the hospital for instead]. I think my scrapes got worse since I put them on in the first place, but I don't know for sure.

I remember back in America; the band-aids there protected from infection and helped heal the sore beneath it. I guess these weren't your American band-aids.

Monica.